Papa claims that he’s not a writer, but I think his posts prove that wrong. I took his last post and created a poem out of his words.

Running
The wind and I traded excited cries
While the waves crashed on the shore
Trying to interrupt our conversation
Who says the earth isn’t alive?
The beach, with stones scattered in jagged fragments like lies
Or smooth and round like promises
The forest with leaves that rustle like whispers
And flowers that bloom with abandon
The wind calls to me to come out
To be wild and unafraid
To feel the bones of the Mother under my feet
To run free from the books and artificial lights
That make me feel old and withered
And so I listen, and I leave the warmth of the house
And I run